[ The rest is on me says Elio, because he doesn't let anyone else owe even a penny for his actions, not even bleeding God himself who, you know, holds a hand in every little stupid thing in existence but no, no one ever blames him, why would they? Why should Lucifer? Why should he even care? Blinking harshly, he stares at the fig in his hand, still feeling the echoes of Elio's gentle fingers against his hand. He holds the other man's gaze for a long moment, his hand tightening dangerously around the fig until he realises he's about a split-second away from crushing it between his fingers.
So he loosens his grip.
Immediately, his stance wilts, shoulders, wings, facial expression. Exhaling loudly, he turns slightly away from Elio, still cradling the fig in his hand, and rubs it with his fingertips. Unconsciously, he folds his wings in around himself a little and that ought to infuriate him more than his father's presence in Elio's world but for some reason, right now all he feels is...
Is... ]
What, uh.
[ He swallows against something that seems to be stuck in his throat. Forces his voice up a notch, though his expression doesn't follow along. ]
[ It's a gradual dissipation, how the anger seeps out of Lucifer's fingers holding the fig and being half a moment from crushing it, making him turn away slightly and fold his wings in around himself, like a child hugging himself when no one else's there and Elio's heart bleeds for him. Desperately, he wants to walk up and hug him from behind, get those big feathery wings right in his face, hold him as close as possible with two extra limbs, but he doesn't. Lucifer's sadness and grief over what he lost is his own, Elio neither can nor should attempt to take it away from him. To be the contrast, of course, and to be the counterweight, but not take it from him. One, it isn't Elio's to carry and two, it's much too heavy for his once-human arms. It's built over eons, longer than humanity has existed, before the Earth was the Earth.
So, Elio waits. He's an amazing waiter, isn't he? It's what he's been doing most of his mortal life. When Lucifer asks the question, the question, he doesn't flinch or look away, instead walking up next to the other man, just placing himself in his periphery, within reach, should he want to. Out of his intimate sphere, should he not.
Glancing up at him sideways, Elio shrugs, not to make light of it, but to say, nothing like that or maybe, nothing to worry about. ]
We talked about names, about knowing things by the right one. Then, my... gift-ness, I guess, how he made me and how I've made myself. [ Pause. ] He got a taste of my focaccia.
[ A slight gesture of one hand, bzz, bzz, bzz, that kind of flapping of wrist, however you signal a bee of all things, how did Rimsky-Korsakov do it? Elio lets his hand sink, only to turn towards Lucifer fully. ]
It lasted all of ten minutes, then he flew out the window.
Until now, he's just assumed... well. When he said talked, he didn't quite mean talk in the literal sense, he meant... the way you just know, right, like the way he knew when he went to collect Chloe's antidote and came across Mum's broken loop door. God doesn't talk to anyone; he hasn't even spoken to Amenadiel, his favourite son, in basically forever. At least, the other angel hasn't mentioned anything about it and there's no way he'd be even slightly capable of keeping something like that to himself.
So, factually, Dad doesn't. Talk. Not to Lucifer (duh), not to Amenadiel (much to his brother's sadness) and not to...
But.
We talked about names.
Blinking rapidly, Lucifer turns to stare at Elio, eyes widening as the magnitude of what he's saying finally, properly resonates. God has spoken, not to any of his angels, not to some new-age prophet or to the Pope or even Leonardo DiCaprio; but to Elio, sweet Elio, who's down here in Hell playing Persephone and plucking the fruits of a garden that's clearly as tied to him as the palace and the realm surrounding them. A small slice of creation itself. ]
You...
[ He wets his lips. Shifts closer, until their shoulders rub together. Then, he slips his arm around Elio's naked waist and pulls him in against his side gently, his feathers cascading down over his upper body, down, down, draping against the ground next to his feet. He stands there, holding Elio close and looks around again. Properly.
The anger has curled into something else, something smaller and more fragile, in the depths of his chest. It's easier like that, to see what's around him. The trees. The fruits.
The sun. ]
You are the most remarkable thing I've ever known.
[ He’s a lot of wide-eyed staring, is Lucifer, after that. He’s always had the kind of face that blew up every emotion to double its original size, so Elio can follow the shifts in reaction very clearly. Disbelief. Wonder. Something... else that Elio doesn’t dare to name, because like the grief, this is Lucifer’s to carry, too. And Elio’s to receive, apparently.
The other man slips his arm around Elio’s naked waist and pulls him in, gently, carefully, in a manner that says you matter and possibly more than you will ever know, and in response Elio rests his head sideways on Lucifer’s shoulder, lets himself be held and appreciated and... that unnameable thing, Lucifer’s own.
Then, Lucifer says that, those words, you are the most remarkable thing I’ve ever known, and maybe he’d compliment-scoff it away normally, but Elio knows the weight of that statement, because Lucifer has known everything there is to know from the beginning of time until now and long into the future, he’ll know it as well. If Elio surpasses all of it, that’s not just a compliment, that’s a...
Oh.
The angel’s wing is wrapped lightly around him, feathers cascading down his front, back, protecting him from all sides as they, each and every one of them, say the same thing. Elio feels something warmer than the sunshine and stronger than Hell’s rocky ground form in his chest. He’s felt this way about Lucifer for a long time, really, but the metaphors were never quite right, never quite here. He turns a little and gets up on his naked toes to kiss the other man’s cheek, stubble scratching him beautifully. ]
I love you, too.
[ Lucifer hasn’t said it yet, the words, and Elio realizes, maybe for the first time, that he has absolutely no stakes in whether the other man ever will. If he can say things like this and give himself in all his forms to him, how loudly would he have to shout to be heard over that?
It’s not that Elio doesn’t expect better of him, it’s that Lucifer has already outdone himself. He thinks about what God said, about making yourself better and he thinks, this very second? They’re both the results of their own hard work. The work that brought them together to begin with.
Nuzzling Lucifer’s cheekbone with his nose, Elio eases down on flat feet again, just standing there, leaning against him. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
So he loosens his grip.
Immediately, his stance wilts, shoulders, wings, facial expression. Exhaling loudly, he turns slightly away from Elio, still cradling the fig in his hand, and rubs it with his fingertips. Unconsciously, he folds his wings in around himself a little and that ought to infuriate him more than his father's presence in Elio's world but for some reason, right now all he feels is...
Is... ]
What, uh.
[ He swallows against something that seems to be stuck in his throat. Forces his voice up a notch, though his expression doesn't follow along. ]
What did you two talk about?
no subject
So, Elio waits. He's an amazing waiter, isn't he? It's what he's been doing most of his mortal life. When Lucifer asks the question, the question, he doesn't flinch or look away, instead walking up next to the other man, just placing himself in his periphery, within reach, should he want to. Out of his intimate sphere, should he not.
Glancing up at him sideways, Elio shrugs, not to make light of it, but to say, nothing like that or maybe, nothing to worry about. ]
We talked about names, about knowing things by the right one. Then, my... gift-ness, I guess, how he made me and how I've made myself. [ Pause. ] He got a taste of my focaccia.
[ A slight gesture of one hand, bzz, bzz, bzz, that kind of flapping of wrist, however you signal a bee of all things, how did Rimsky-Korsakov do it? Elio lets his hand sink, only to turn towards Lucifer fully. ]
It lasted all of ten minutes, then he flew out the window.
no subject
It takes a second or two to fully register.
Until now, he's just assumed... well. When he said talked, he didn't quite mean talk in the literal sense, he meant... the way you just know, right, like the way he knew when he went to collect Chloe's antidote and came across Mum's broken loop door. God doesn't talk to anyone; he hasn't even spoken to Amenadiel, his favourite son, in basically forever. At least, the other angel hasn't mentioned anything about it and there's no way he'd be even slightly capable of keeping something like that to himself.
So, factually, Dad doesn't. Talk. Not to Lucifer (duh), not to Amenadiel (much to his brother's sadness) and not to...
But.
We talked about names.
Blinking rapidly, Lucifer turns to stare at Elio, eyes widening as the magnitude of what he's saying finally, properly resonates. God has spoken, not to any of his angels, not to some new-age prophet or to the Pope or even Leonardo DiCaprio; but to Elio, sweet Elio, who's down here in Hell playing Persephone and plucking the fruits of a garden that's clearly as tied to him as the palace and the realm surrounding them. A small slice of creation itself. ]
You...
[ He wets his lips. Shifts closer, until their shoulders rub together. Then, he slips his arm around Elio's naked waist and pulls him in against his side gently, his feathers cascading down over his upper body, down, down, draping against the ground next to his feet. He stands there, holding Elio close and looks around again. Properly.
The anger has curled into something else, something smaller and more fragile, in the depths of his chest. It's easier like that, to see what's around him. The trees. The fruits.
The sun. ]
You are the most remarkable thing I've ever known.
no subject
The other man slips his arm around Elio’s naked waist and pulls him in, gently, carefully, in a manner that says you matter and possibly more than you will ever know, and in response Elio rests his head sideways on Lucifer’s shoulder, lets himself be held and appreciated and... that unnameable thing, Lucifer’s own.
Then, Lucifer says that, those words, you are the most remarkable thing I’ve ever known, and maybe he’d compliment-scoff it away normally, but Elio knows the weight of that statement, because Lucifer has known everything there is to know from the beginning of time until now and long into the future, he’ll know it as well. If Elio surpasses all of it, that’s not just a compliment, that’s a...
Oh.
The angel’s wing is wrapped lightly around him, feathers cascading down his front, back, protecting him from all sides as they, each and every one of them, say the same thing. Elio feels something warmer than the sunshine and stronger than Hell’s rocky ground form in his chest. He’s felt this way about Lucifer for a long time, really, but the metaphors were never quite right, never quite here. He turns a little and gets up on his naked toes to kiss the other man’s cheek, stubble scratching him beautifully. ]
I love you, too.
[ Lucifer hasn’t said it yet, the words, and Elio realizes, maybe for the first time, that he has absolutely no stakes in whether the other man ever will. If he can say things like this and give himself in all his forms to him, how loudly would he have to shout to be heard over that?
It’s not that Elio doesn’t expect better of him, it’s that Lucifer has already outdone himself. He thinks about what God said, about making yourself better and he thinks, this very second? They’re both the results of their own hard work. The work that brought them together to begin with.
Nuzzling Lucifer’s cheekbone with his nose, Elio eases down on flat feet again, just standing there, leaning against him. ]